Food From the Heart by Nienna

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Food From the Heart

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“Hey,” Isilmë said as she plopped down next to Moda on the couch. “Were there any special foods you would eat as a kid, like to celebrate the arrival of winter? I had an idea.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Moda, somewhat sleepily. She had intended to just take a short break, but had been leaning more and more, and was now almost lying down.

“We could each make the foods from our childhoods — and share them with each other! I would love to learn about all of your traditions.”

“I like that idea in theory, but I don’t think you want to know about this particular one. Even I can’t stand it.”

“Why? What’s so bad about it?”

Moda sighed, but there was laughter in her eyes. “Every winter, to honor the arrival of the season, my mother would prepare one of the more elaborate dishes of the year. First, she sent me to gather plants — it varied year to year, just whatever I could find growing that looked good — and then she smashed them into a paste. The paste was layered with pickled fruit, and then covered with salted meat. On top of all of that, we had to put a few runny eggs.”

“It sounds like… a lot,” said Isilmë.

“Yeah. It was,” said Moda. “I never liked the taste, but worst of all was the texture. And every winter we all had to work together to create it, and then my family had a long meal where we ate it, and I was always required to finish my plate. I haven’t had it since my mom died. I never liked the dish, mind you, but it was hers, you know? Or at least, she was the one that taught me the recipe — I’m not certain the recipe wasn’t passed down from someone before her. Now I sort of miss those meals, although it’s a weird thing to be nostalgic for since I hated it then.”

“That’s exactly why we should make it,” said Isilmë. “But we don’t even have to exactly follow the recipe you learned. Let’s build on what she gave you — both the recipe and the memories — to create something that actually works for us.”

“That’s a good philosophy in general, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Isilmë snuggled up closer, wrapping her arm around Moda’s chest. “And next week we can make something from my childhood. I’ll have to think of what. I’m sure there were some truly horrid recipes.” She closed her eyes. “Or,” she said, “maybe we were just stupid kids, and if we make it now we’ll find that it’s delicious.”

“I find that proposition unlikely,” said Moda, but she wasn’t really paying attention to the words. She was paying attention to the heavy warmth of Isilmë’s body blended with hers.

——-

Moda and Isilmë put on layers of coats and mittens, not wanting the day to be cut short by getting chilled.

Stepping outside, the air was cold and dry. They walked on the path down the hill from their house. It was not as cleared as it probably should have been, and so bits of snow and ice crunched under their feet. They sometimes needed to avoid places where the snow had piled up, or kick them out of the way. After only a few minutes of walking, Isilmë was already sipping on the container of water that she always carried slung over her shoulder.

“How should we divide up the search?” asked Moda.

Isilmë paused, almost imperceptibly, and said, “What exactly are we looking for?”

“Well… that’s up to us. I know the bearberries are always a good find.” 

“You can get those then, Moda.” 

Moda nodded. “But mostly I think we’re looking for vegetable type things. What sort of winter vegetables do you think would taste good in a paste? And it doesn’t have to be all foraged, I don’t see why we can’t get some things from the market.”

“Hmm,” Isilmë thought for a moment. “What about peppers and mushrooms?”

“And maybe some edible evergreen leaves as well?” cut in Moda. “I like your ideas, but it was usually mostly green so I’d like to put some of those in too.”

——-

When they reached the forested area Moda dropped to her knees and started digging for bearberries and mushrooms. Isilmë looked for edible leaves. When they reunited, they showed each other what they had found.

Moda stroked her fingers across some of the leaves that Isilmë carried. “Those look good, Isilmë.”

Isilmë tried to gesture to the pile at Moda’s feet, but it was rather difficult because her hands were full and forming a bowl for the leaves. “Likewise to yours.”

“I realized we did something really stupid, though,” said Moda. 

“What is that?” asked Isilmë.

“We forgot to bring any sort of basket! I mean, I think I can carry this, but the entire way? I’ll probably drop some things. Or we could go on two trips…” 

Isilmë started laughing suddenly, and watching her Moda was soon laughing as well. When Isilmë was able to calm down, she said, “That was stupid. Can we try to carry it? I don’t want to walk through this snow again.”

Moda was still smiling. “I suppose.” She picked up her pile, holding it in her shirt, and started walking. “This’ll teach us.”

They walked a few more feet, Isilmë reminding herself to take small steps in order to match up with Moda.

“How come I married a princess, but she’s just as forgetful as me, just as graceless?” said Moda.

“Well, I was never a very good princess,” said Isilmë. “I think they’ve all but given up on me, they let me live on my own after all. And hardly anyone comes here. My siblings do their duties, all I have to do is show up a few times a year.”

She moved closer to Moda. “All we have to do, of course, now that we’re married. I’m sure they’ll be happy to meet you.”

“Do you… do you think they’ll see me as your wife? How do you know they won’t shun me, because I’m a woman or because I’m a Drugh?”

Isilmë’s face clouded a little. “I don’t know. I haven’t really let myself think about that possibility. But no matter what they say, it won’t change the fact that I love you, and I will not leave you, regardless. And I don’t… I don’t think they will. The good thing about no one having any expectations for me is I can do as I please. It was hard at first, but now I’m more or less at peace with my family, and they with me.”

Moda gave Isilme a comforting, slight smile. “That’s good to hear, that you think it will probably be okay. I suppose I just get nervous. This is not… is not what my parents wanted for me. And I’ve had to spend some time becoming comfortable with that. I guess that’s something we actually share…”

Isilmë nodded. “I think it is, even though our backgrounds are so different. Maybe that’s part of why we first connected?” She paused for a moment, and then her face lit up as she said, “Do you remember our first meeting?”

“How could I possibly forget!” said Moda, and Isilmë could see the love in the way her eyes widened and her smile grew large. It filled her with a feeling of tenderness, and she copied Moda’s expression to some degree, although she didn’t realize she was doing it.

“We were in a writing class,” Moda continued, “just something for fun, and you must have been really captivated by me, because you wrote such a detailed and flattering description of me within your story, I couldn’t believe it. After we had made comments and passed all the papers back to their writers, I waited patiently until the end of class.”

“What did you write about?” Isilmë interjected. “I can’t remember.”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Something really landscape heavy, I think. I was experimenting with designing a new world, with what it might look like.”

“That sounds like you… And you came up to me after class. You were so brave! I’m not sure exactly what I had intended when I wrote about you. I don’t think I realized the papers were going to be passed around, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, so I wanted to capture something of your loveliness.” Isilmë dropped one of the leaves she had been carrying, and Moda stopped walking while she carefully bent down and picked it up.

Once they were walking again, Moda said “I just walked right up and asked you if you had written about me. When you quietly said, “Yes,” I asked if you would go out with me. And you said “Yes” again, but louder. And the very next day we went to the park.”

“We did! And there were too many people around, so we found a big bush, of the kind that has a little space inside it if you maneuver around the leaves. But it was too scratchy so we climbed out and just sat under a tree.”

“And then we kissed at the end! I could not stop smiling for the whole rest of the day.” Moda kicked a twig out of the way.

Isilmë said, “I was so nervous… but I was also having the time of my life. My head was just clouded with excitement, and everything seemed so bright.”

They continued reminiscing for the rest of the walk home.

——-

With the foraged foods on the table (and only a few less than had been picked,) Moda and Isilmë went over the rest of the recipe.

Isilmë stepped on her stool and opened the cabinet. “We have eggs, and there’s still a bit of salted meat left. No pickled fruits though.”

She stepped back down. “I want to cook the eggs thoroughly, and cut them into little pieces. The viscous yolk that dripped down through all the layers was always the worst part.” She wrinkled her face in remembrance. 

“Okay! I rather like runny eggs, but I want to make this dish in a way that you like. And I’m sure someone is selling pickled fruit down at the market. If not I can ask a few friends. But we should get some more greens too, don’t you think?”

“That’s probably a good idea. It is getting late though,” said Moda.

“Oh gosh, when does the market close?” Isilmë interrupted. 

Moda checked the market calendar that was pinned to the wall. “Not for an hour and a half.” She turned to face Isilmë. “Can you go? I can start cooking the things we already have. I really don’t feel like going outside again.”

Isilmë briefly touched her shoulder. “Sure.”

——-

Moda got to work, trying to remember some of the spices her mother had used. She sang as she cooked. At first it was newer songs, things she had heard in the city when she went to performances, or songs that Isilmë had sung with her. She wasn’t a particularly good singer, but she and Isilmë both loved music, so they sang together sometimes. 

And then as she continued to cook, she started singing songs from her childhood, from her family’s celebrations, especially the ones that had marked the winter. Isilmë’s songs were not the same as the ones she knew, and her memories and the things she had done were not the same either. It saddened her to think about this, about all the things they didn’t share, but she remembered that they could share these things now, that it was beautiful, because it meant they could have more traditions, more songs. All the same, she was crying, slightly at first and then fully, singing all these old songs and cooking this old recipe. It had been seven years since her mother died. 

After a while Isilmë came back, and seeing the state that Moda was in, wrapped her in a long hug. After that they worked by each other, only talking occasionally to explain what needed to be done next, Moda still singing all the way. Isilmë joined in if she knew the words.

——-

The dish was finally finished, and was cooling on the table. Isilmë was bent over a pot of steaming mulled wine, while Moda made herself a spiced hot cocoa. They weren’t inviting anyone over for this meal, because they just wanted it to be something special that they did together.

“Should we write it down, what we did?” asked Isilmë. “To make sure we can make it just like this in the future, if it turns out good.”

“Well, I’m not sure. It was never written down before. That’s why I suspect we’re not the first ones to have changed it. But I wouldn’t want to forget the things I’ve done with you…”

“We can decide later. For now let’s just enjoy our meal.”

Once she had finished making her cocoa, Moda lit a candelabrum as a centerpiece and started to set the table. It brought her back to memories of when they were first dating. Sometimes she still couldn’t quite believe that she got to be with Isilmë all the time now, and was filled with a feeling of unreality and amazement.

Isilmë walked over to the table. “I like the candles,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Well, just because we’re married doesn’t mean I can’t dress it up a little!” Moda pulled up her chair and sat down. 

Isilmë did the same.“I like that,” she said. She put her forehead to Moda’s.

Moda stayed there for a moment and then said, “Let’s eat,” getting up to bring the container and a metal spatula over. She sliced into it and gave each of them a piece (although it ended up being more like a scoop, as all the layers pushed together and flopped over a bit.)

They each took a bite at the same time. Moda closed her eyes, trying to let all the different flavors meld. 

“It’s... good!” she said, voice slightly muffled because she was still chewing. 

“I think it’s delicious,” said Isilmë. “It’s a lot of flavors, but they work really well together, or at least, they do the way that we made it.”

“You had such a good idea,” said Moda, before taking another mouthful.

Isilmë took a sip of mulled wine. “Does it taste like you remembered?”

Moda looked at her. “You know, I can barely remember the taste. Try as I might — and I do remember my disgust — I can’t remember the actual taste that this had when my mother made it. But I....” her voice broke a little. “ I think I got all my crying out earlier. And now I just want to make room for joy at being able to have this with you, and not have to think about anything else.”

Isilmë saw that she had stumbled onto something tender, but she respected Moda’s request for joy. She understood that well. She held up her glass, and soon Moda did the same.

“To finding joy in this winter, and to us, in our first winter here together!”

“May it be the first of many!”

They clinked, and each took a long sip. Then they went back to eating the once reviled, now loved dish, which in time would become one of their yearly traditions.